Rinse, Lather, Repeat
by colossally abundant numbers
Summary: Humans are addicted to a game that simulates reality, and because it's a game, they have no problem engaging in irreparable warfare. The nations, unfortunately, bear the brunt of their every attack. France/England, America/China, Ontario/Quebec
1. Chapter 1

**rinse, lather, repeat**

—  
>Summary: Humans have given up on living in the real world; instead, they're addicted to a game that simulates reality. Because it's a game, they feel free to do horrific things to each other and engage in irreparable warfare. The nations, unfortunately, bear the brunt of their every attack. FrUK, AmericaChina, Ontario/Quebec  
>—<p>

They'd fit him up with a nice shack, a proper mansion if he were so daring as to call it that, and they'd told him he didn't have to do a damn thing.

"Just watch," they'd said, "We'll turn this place into the largest empire you've ever seen. We'll bring back the glory years." And they smile at him, eyes glazed over with excitement.

_Oh, sweet taste of victory, let us laugh at the fallen, let us trample over their dirt-ridden bodies, crush their spirit, take their land. And let them forget - always forget._

They're smiling, because they know that whatever they do in-game, whoever they choose to conquer, kill, murder, rape — none of it matters, because they're not real people, because it's just a simulation. Noise, one of his citizens had called it, background noise, like crickets chirping on a hot summer night.

"No one will get hurt," they'd said, and they left their lips quirked in a permanent smile.

He wonders if they ever realized that "English imperialism" might be a pair of dirty words, and that perhaps they ought not go around parading it with such pride. He wonders if they know that he hears voices in his head sometimes, petulant (childish) cries of _fuck you, you little whore_ and _die you greedy son of a bitch_, and he doesn't know who's saying them, who's disgusted. America had tried to put him in a mental hospital, twice, and he'd almost broke the man's nose for it the second time.

France is the only nation he still keeps in touch with. They meet biweekly, in the Saharan desert, land that should not belong to France at all, but somehow does, and he feels the urge to accuse France of cruelty, of repeating the same mistakes over and over again. (France, he wants to ask, are you still bitter? Can you still not accept that he left, like they all do?) But he says nothing, because he is just as guilty, and yet their people do not feel any guilt. They say it's because there's nothing to feel guilty about now, because every few weeks or so, when things become horrifically unbalanced and the world unworkable, the game is reset.

And all their hard work is undone, whisked away by the northern wind.

"How are you, Angleterre?" France asks, holding the door open for his visitor, because this is polite, and outside of the battlefield, France is never crass.

England nods stiffly in greeting. "Dry and dusty, France. I don't think this desert weather suits me well."

France gets the two of them drinks, and they sit by the kitchen table, sipping their liquids in well-practiced silence. They stare at the wall, at the floor, they avoid each other's gaze.

Eventually, it is France who breaks the silence. "We're supposed to declare war on America tomorrow."

England looks into his cup - tea, jasmine green - not his favorite, it's one of China's brews, but he hasn't been doing well this round, hasn't got a culture to speak of at all. Only memories, always memories.

He looks up at France and says, voice even, "So I've heard. At dawn tomorrow, our troops will move down from Quebec into Vermont. And they will pillage and burn Newport, St. Johnsbury, Lebanon. And - "

He chokes on his tea, and forces himself to say the next words. " - and America, he'll get a new scar. On his right arm. His shoulder will be dislocated, and maybe he'll get a burn, a second degree burn."

"If we burn Newport," France says, "then it will certainly not be a second degree burn. Third degree is more like it, don't you think?"

England feels his face flush, but says nothing, because France is right, because he'd gotten too good at using euphemisms. Everything was 'second degree', 'mediocre', 'partly undone', and 'sometimes right'. Their people would give the same excuses, with those childish, dispassionate grins plastered to their faces, "Who cares?" they would say, "It's just a game."

"It's kinda funny," one boy, not much older than fifteen, had informed him, "I mean, there aren't even any consequences, so why should I care? My grandpa says it's genocide, but he's just one of them 'get off my lawn' oldies. It's not genocide if no one's dead."

"And what if someone gets hurt?"

"Oh come _on_, I mean, people's feelings get hurt and shit - I bet some baby'll probably be crying over losing - but that's no _genocide_."

The boy went back to loading his gun, and England thought back to that day when America had been stabbed, four times, each cut lodged neatly between his ribs, and he'd crawled back to camp, screaming, blood staining the hardwood floor. It wasn't genocide, it wasn't, not even if America was _carrying_ his goddamn heart in his hands, it wasn't.

And he had wondered it if was too cruel to bare his back for the boy, to point at the scars, especially that newest one, still pink and barely healed over. That was wrong, he'd heard, for they don't show children the consequences of war. The more violence they see, the more violent they get, and prevention was always more important than truth. So England kept everything under wraps, hidden, and wondered — what had happened to their years of psychological reform?

("That stiff upper lip of yours," she had said to him, "it's unhealthy. You shouldn't bottle up your emotions." Then she'd put her hands on his shoulders, and said, "Come on, I know you like to pretend to like you've got some control over your emotions, but we're not living in the 19th century anymore. You've got to move on, like the rest of us."

And then - "Arthur, tell me what's wrong, tell me what's bothering you. We're all friends here, aren't we? You'll be happier, I swear, once you tell me."

She'd forced him to go out to dinner, three times in a week, and tried to coax the troubles from his throat.

"They're too tightly sealed," she'd complained one night, brushing her hands over his lips, "What, did you accidentally get superglue stuck on them or something? Maybe I need to get you drunk."

And so she did, leading him to a spacious little bar in the south end of his capital, nestling the two of them in a corner. They drank, and England felt the alcohol in his veins, felt empowered.

"I...I hurt someone today," he whispered, and it felt good to finally hear the words out in the open. Except it wasn't today, it was last week, he'd hurt someone last week, last month, last year. Last century, he'd hurt the world, and they would never forgive him.

She chuckled, sudden mirth surprising him. "You hurt someone? I mean, you can be plenty abrasive on the outside, but surely it's not that serious. They'll get over it once they realize you didn't mean it. Maybe you just need to apologize."

She'd bought the next round of drinks, and England thought to himself, perhaps talking about his troubles wasn't so bad after all.

They drank together, toasting each other throughout the night. He wondered if she knew she was toasting her country, if she knew that he was in love, that _England_ was in love with her.)

(He'd been so happy back then, as if on a euphoric high, and everything was going so well too, because she could tolerate his lifestyle, his mood swings, everything.

Then he'd got the letter in the mail - she'd been in that damned vehicle, and then she'd — )

(Dead, like everyone else that had come before her.)

"How many times do we have to do this?" England asks. The teacup is shaking in his hands, and he wants to crush it. "So one day we attack Iceland, and the next day we're his ally, one day he's screaming bloody murder over a chest wound we inflicted and the next he's trying to wed us? This — can't you see something wrong, France?"

France peers at him from behind his cup, face a neutral mask.

"There is nothing we can do, Angleterre. The people — our people — they do what they will."

—

It doesn't make any sense, China thinks, because somehow, even after twenty rounds, they'd never attacked each other even once. He didn't think America was particularly fond of him, especially not after he'd tried to auction off the nation's bonds.

"Why are we working together?" he'd asked America one night, when they'd returned to their makeshift tent.

America had looked thoughtful for a moment before finally saying, "You're a good drinking buddy."

He decides not to question the matter, because he does rather enjoy the taste of _máotái_, and it's always better with someone else by his side. Besides, when they wake up from yet another reset game, it was nice to have someone there, someone who could confirm your existence, your memories, everything that your people had chosen to reject.

And that night, they drink quietly and pray that their citizens will come to their senses in the morning.

—

"England," America croaks, "don't do this."

England has a gun in his hand, cocked and ready to fire down towards the city.

"Give me Newport then. And St. Johnsbury, and — "

"Christ, England, what the hell would you want with Vermont?"

England glares at him, and America hastily amends, "I mean, what would _your people_ want with Vermont?"

America feels a fleeting moment of guilt for accusing England of a crime his _people_ had committed, but really, what was the difference? He couldn't tell anymore, because all their actions had bled together, one after the other, a mess of misery and lies and carelessness.

"I don't know," England states, refusing to meet America's gaze. "They need it to promote stability in the empire, or they got bored and reckless and decided to cross the border, or they — you know what, I don't fucking know what they want."

He puts the gun down on a nearby tree stump, turns to America, and whispers, voice hoarse, "I don't know, alright, _I don't know_!" Then he cradles his head in his arms, tries to stop himself from picking up the gun again — it's so close, right there, and if he picks it up he knows he'll shoot America — and the bullet, oh god the bullet, would pierce his temple, and he'd fall to the floor, scream caught in his throat.

"Please leave," he says, staring sullenly at the floor.

When America doesn't move, doesn't listen, he looks up and snaps, "_Leave_, goddamn it, _leave!_ Get the fuck out of my sight, Alfred — I don't — I don't want to see you _burning_ — "

America looks at him a moment longer, as though trying to freeze the frenzied state of his former mentor in his mind.

"What are you waiting for, America?" England screams, "Goddamn it, _leave_!"

And so America runs, runs from the forest, sprints down the hill, wind pulsing by his ears, howling cries of _burn, baby, burn_, because it was on fire — an entire _forest_ was lit up in flames, and he could see one of England's people standing at the edge again, match held proudly in hand.

—

China cooks that night. They'd been alternating depending on who had the worse wounds, who was still standing on any given day, and after seeing America come back cradling his left elbow in pain, it was definitely his turn to do the honors.

"Smells good," America says, peeking out from their makeshift tent.

China turns, scowling. "Alfred, go rest. The soup isn't ready yet."

America ignores him and walks out to examine the bonfire. "So what did you put in it?"

"Tofu," China lies, gesturing at the rectangular chunks in the soup. He's lying because he knows America would not find _jīyāxuětāng_ appetizing, because as far as Alfred was concerned, chicken blood was absolutely revolting. But they didn't have supplies, and America needed to eat _something_ to recover.

America dips his ladle into the pot, stirs, and says, "Do you think our — our newest scars — do you think they'll be permanent?"

China cranes his neck to stare at the nation. "You're worrying about this _now_? You shouldn't worry about it, _měiguó_. There's nothing we can do. Scars come and go as they will." A pause. "Do you _want_ to keep them?"

"Well..." America stops to ponder, takes in several sips of the soup and hums in satisfaction. "Someone needs to remember, you know? There aren't records in these games — it's like no one cares at all once a round is over! What about all the alliances of the last round? How can France and Germany be friends in one round and then try to rip each other's guts out the next?"

China sighs, shaking his head, because there's that question lingering on his lips again — why are _we_ together then? They'd rarely seen eye to eye, and yet there hadn't been a _single_ round where they'd ended up pitted against each other. Perhaps they weren't alone in this though — perhaps other nations —

"Do you think there are others like us, then?"

'What?" America asks, taking a break from devouring his soup. His face looks tense — confused — and China regrets bringing it up, because suddenly there's fear in the air — because what if their people do turn against each other? What if that happens the very next day? _China has detonated a nuclear weapon in the United States' heartland._ _The American government, in retribution, detonates a series of _ — goddamn it all, he would not think about _that_, because then the trust they'd held in each other, their carefully constructed safety net — it would all be gone.

He would wake up to an empty bed — to war cries — to terrified screams — and he would be _all alone_.

"Hey — _Yaoyao_ — you okay?" America was waving his fingers in front of his face.

"I'm fine," he manages, feeling slightly offput by America's use of his diminutive, "We should figure out what to do next — England is clearly not done."

"Right, right, military strategy and all that. I guess since England's demanding some of my border towns and stuff, I'll just give it to him. Appease him and...and then there's Quebec — shit."

"Is he French, German, Japanese or Mongolian?" He had been German for the last three rounds, Japanese before that, and Mongolian before _that_, but China had a feeling France was there again, this time around.

"I think he's French. I mean, England's troops came down through Quebec, and England and France seem pretty friendly, or else why would France have allowed England to invade my land while trampling through his?" A pause. "You think they're fucking each other?"

China rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't put it quite that way, but possibly, yes." And of course, maybe they were just taking advantage of the opportunity while they could, because next round their people could try to kill each other again, and they'd be forced to raise arms against each other again...make love, not war, right? And the cynic in him proclaimed it the most idiotic saying he'd ever heard.

America finishes up his soup and struggles to rise. China walks over, pats him on the shoulder, and says, "You should rest for the night. We can come up with strategies tomorrow morning — I doubt either England or France will bother staking another attack tonight."

"I'm not a baby," America grumbles, looking petulant, "I can do my own dishes."

China snorts. "Give me the bowl, America."

—

"What are you doing?" France asks.

"Recording," England answers simply. It's something he does daily, and he has no intentions of stopping.

France leafs through the papers, pages and pages of meticulous notes detailing the past day's events. _Arrival at Newport. Our troops number ten thousand strong and we look down onto a village of four thousand yards wide. _"Do you really need this, _Angleterre_?" he asks at last, lifting England's shirt sleeve. Then he gestures to the scars on the nation's wrist and says, "You have these — are they not good enough for you?"

England pushes France away, scowling. "Get your filthy hands off me, France."

And so France says no more; he just watches as England continues his furious scribbling. Occasionally, England rants aloud — belatedly furious about the outcome of some war, some botched trade agreement. Then the pages descend into a flurry of madness, as England writes about death and disease and rage and disgust and France can't help but wonder, can't help but mention —

"I do wonder," France says casually, "what would happen if we were to die? And I don't mean genocide — like, for instance, if _Italie_ takes out all of _Allemagne_'s people, and then Germany dies. I mean something more like — what if I decided to kill myself, right here, right — "

"France," England snarls, slamming his pen into the table, "don't even _think_ about it."

France smiles, speaking a mesh of half-truths. "Oh, _Angleterre_, that was just a harmless example."

England slams his fist into France's stomach, and the two of them tumble to the floor, just like in the old days. England manages to get on top this time, so he grabs France's collar and snarls, "Don't lie to me, France, don't fucking _lie_ to me."

"I'm not — if only you would trust me, dear Albion. I am merely asking a question, out of curiosity. If we were to die — not as nations, Angleterre, but as _humans_, what do you think would happen?"

"It's not possible," England snaps, "So don't bother entertaining the thought."

But it is, and France doesn't understand why England refuses to see the light. Their people claim they were in a game, claim that none of their actions were permanent, and yet every war they fought would leave a scar — a _permanent_ scar. So why did the nations suffer in lieu of everyone else, why did they suffer when it was only supposed to be a _game_?

England's phone vibrates then — it's a call.

From Quebec.

He picks up, switches to speakerphone for France's benefit, and hears a low growl on the other end, "C't'une idée stupide, mais— "

Then there's a strangled cry, the sound of a shotgun's roar, and England looks at France, concerned. The look on France's face makes him afraid — it's terrified, and he —

"Angleterre," France mumbles, backing away, "...Earlier, I was not joking. Quebec — he is — he is reenacting it all — I don't know why he wants to die, or why he did what he did — in fact, I don't think it's just Quebec — ever since our people started this — this denial of reality, have you seen Canada at all? He has not been here..."

England shakes his head, sick.

Canada — where had he gone? Sure, they'd found it easy to ignore the nation in the real world, but this game was different. Invisibility was something that could be used greatly to his advantage, so what was Canada _doing_? Had he — his _people_ — been in hiding the last few rounds, or had they been hurt somehow — and England suddenly thinks of the worst case scenario —

— Matthew was hurt, maimed, prisoner of an oppressive regime —

"We need to look for Canada," England says suddenly, rising from his seat, fervent with anger, "He couldn't have disappeared in-game — it makes no sense! Isn't there a record for these things? Isn't there a goddamn_ record_ of who's alive every round, a headcount?"

France just nods.

And the two of them make a mad dash for their desktop, fiddle with the router to get online, scroll through pages and pages of names. _Botswana, Brazil, Brunei..._

"Where is he? Where the hell is he? There's — Cambodia, Cameroon, Cape Verde — goddamn it, where the _fuck_ is Canada?"

England looks frantic, and France shakes his head.

"Check his provinces," France says finally, "Quebec is here, is he not? What about the rest of them?"

But besides Quebec, none of his provinces were there either, and the two of them stare at the screen, unwilling to believe the reality in front of them.

"I think..." France says, finally turning away, "It is best to not inform our people of this — they will think it is a good opportunity to sail over and get land." France could envision the scene already — they would laugh, because history was just repeating itself, wasn't it? If they had _la Nouvelle-France_, their territory would double, and who cares what came before, nothing important, not at all.

And France thinks of Matthew, the child he'd met all those centuries ago, the child who'd been at peace with Winter and had invited him over for countless dinners.

Where had he gone?

—

**notes**

1 - _máotái _- 茅台 - a type of liquor from China; _měiguó _- 美国 - the U.S.  
>2 - There actually is a reason why the people of both America and China haven't attacked each other yet — that will be revealed later, when both nations attempt to figure out the truth<br>3 - _jīyāxuětāng_ - 鸡鸭血汤 - it's a soup that has chicken and duck blood in it, though the blood is shaped like tofu. it's really good; the translated name just makes it sound unappetizing  
>4 - There may be random US state and Chinese province cameos (so not just Canada!). Depends on how comfortable I feel characterizing them...<br>5 - I've been writing ahead, so expect the next chapter soon! (Yes, I've already written Ontario and Quebec; sorry that they haven't shown up.)

Reviews are greatly appreciated! :) And I swear I'm gonna update Blind Carbon Copy very, very soon. I have most of the chapter written, I just need to make sure my explanations are clear...I should probably look for a beta.


	2. Chapter 2

**rinse, lather, repeat  
>chapter 2<strong>

—

They discuss military strategy first thing in the morning, over bowls of lukewarm rice porridge.

"I think you are letting _yīngguó_ take advantage of you. He — or his people, if you will — seem very into the idea of 'total war', which means we should adapt to his methods."

"Yeah, they just burn everything in their path — that's their goddamn strategy," America snaps, bitter, and it's clear that his injury is getting to him.

China peers at him with tired eyes. "How is your arm, America?"

"Fine," America grumbles, "Fucking _perfect_."

And that's a blatant lie, because his arm is covered in bandages, and they're stained (soaked) with pus from the burn. China has an inkling America hates feeling useless whenever he's injured — hates that he's a burden, that he needs to be taken care of, like a child. (Except China doesn't mind — really, he doesn't, because America had done the same for him a week ago, hadn't he? Only China hadn't felt like a child then, he'd felt like a senile old man, lying on his deathbed, breathing his last breath, and he'd been bitter, regret hanging on every word...)

They eat in silence for a while, and America, in his anger, lifts the jar of _ròusōng_ and dumps half the jar onto his porridge.

China raises his eyebrows, but doesn't comment.

Eventually, America murmurs, almost thoughtful, "I might as well just give him all the cities he wants — I mean, considering that this damn battle doesn't have any real meaning, I kinda would prefer not being burned to owning more territory."

"Your people will not take kindly to this strategy," China says, shaking his head, "Can you imagine telling them — 'Oh yes, let's just retreat and surrender! I mean, I don't have a logical reason to give you or anything, but I really want to just _stop_ all of this — '"

"And our wounds aren't reason enough?" America grumbles, slamming his bowl onto the dirt floor. Then he tugs at his bandages, layer after layer, and whispers, "These wounds — everything we've been hiding — they need to _see _them, and fuck them if they still don't care afterwards!"

But China just shakes his head, because it won't work, because no one would believe them.

("Who is this nutcase?" they'd ask, "Claiming to be our country — what a load of horseshit."

"Yeah, get a hold of yourself, would you? Even if I stab and kill you now, you'll just get revived next round. Permanent scars and _pain_ — hah! Hey guys, anybody got a bayonet? Let's roast some noobs!"

And their laughter would echo in the night air, polluting it with their every breath.

China doesn't want to hear it.)

—

Québec's disappearance happens on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

And the first cases of acute mental breakdown start that evening — a family of four — a mother, a father, and their two children had come into the hospital, reporting hallucinations, dizziness and paranoia.

England asks France if he's seen the news, because — "There's five of them now — that family and another kid at the hospital. Something's wrong, France, something's really — "

"Something is always wrong," France says, looking up at the ceiling. He pulls his tie around his neck, because they've got work to attend to tonight, and dressing right is the only thing that reminds him of home, of what came before.

But England, in a sudden burst of rage, reaches forward and rips the tie from his hands. "Don't sound so nonchalant, France. Québec — he _shot_ himself, and you're sitting here picking out ties — what, is playing dressup more important than your goddamn son's life?"

There's no response, and England throws the tie to the floor, frustrated. "_France_, do you care at all? His people are — there's something wrong and we don't know what the hell is going on! How can you not feel a damn thing, after all these years, after we spent all this time condemning our people for nonchalance, ambivalence, and here _you_ are, acting the part — "

"Angleterre," France cuts in, "why do you insist on making everything difficult?"

"Shut up," England snarls, "_You_ were never good at repressing your emotions, France. That's my job — I'm the one who pretends like everything's okay, not _you_. You're supposed to be passionate one, bursting with emotion!"

Then he shakes France, slams his back into the wall, and screams, "So why aren't you caring? Why aren't you complaining about the unfairness of it all? Where are your protesters, where are the riots, the _manifestations_ you're so damn proud of?"

France says nothing.

Instead, he pulls out a set of confirmation papers from his breast pocket and hands them to England. "Meet me at the station by 20:30. We're going to visit him, _Angleterre_."

_Even though he is no longer there..._

—

When they get off the plane and check into the nearest hotel, they turn on the TV to catch the latest news — three more people had showed up at the hospital, with the exact same symptoms as those who had come before. They were bringing the first man out on a wheelchair and —

"You said you saw hallucinations," the reporter says, "What exactly did you see?"

"They didn't feel like hallucinations!" the man shouts, "'Cause after it was over — it felt like some part of the hallucination was still lingering, like I could still feel the touch of — " The man suddenly leaps up and grabs the reporter's shoulders and screams, "_Oh dieu, qu'est-ce que j'ai fait? Cette femme — _who was it that I killed?"

The man looks terrified, and his limbs seem to be shrinking further into his wheelchair. "Who did I kill? _Who_?"

He continues his screaming, and France reaches for the remote and shuts off the TV.

"I don't want to see this," he says and tosses the remote on their bed.

England rounds on him immediately. "I don't give a damn if you want to see it or not, Francis. Québec's disappearance changed something — something fundamental about the game, and we are _not_ going to sit here and drown in ignorance just because _you_ are too goddamn cowardly to look at the news."

There is the look of ashen disapproval on France's face, but England snatches the remote from his hands, and flips the TV on again.

The man they'd been trying to interview answers a few more questions, now describing in morbid detail the three infantrymen he'd killed two rounds back. "I saw — they were crying — _oh god_, how is it possible? They never cry, they're not supposed to _cry_! And there was so much blood, it was everywhere, on the floor, staining my clothes — why did I never see this the first time around?"

He turns to the reporter and screeches, "_Pourquoi_? _Dis-moi_!" _Why? Tell me!_

"_Angleterre_," France grumbles, glaring at the screen and the increasingly hysterical man, "This — this is nothing more than a distraction. Oh, how nice of them, bringing the man onto the center stage — let's ask him questions, let's demonstrate his craziness, but let's not reveal the truth — the fact that this only happened because Québec _left_. Let's distract you with his mental deterioration and forget the..."

France trails off — because the man — he's reaching for the reporter's neck, choking her, and she's struggling to free herself. The two aides run up to pry him off, and —

The screen suddenly turns blank.

—

There's a dirt path leading from his house to the creek, and every morning, he runs down it, letting the spring breeze wash over his face. The kids shout when they see him, they cling to his legs with their muddy hands, and shout, "Matt! Matt! You're back!" — and then they drag him into the creek with them, laughing.

Today, he has an announcement to make.

"Who wants to go to Disneyland this winter?" he asks.

Eager hands shoot into the air. "Ooh, me, me!"

"No, no, _me_!"

Canada just laughs and ruffles their hair.

"I think we have room for everyone," he says, because Disneyland had been empty for decades, and it would be like visiting an old relic. Abandoned, rusted — _oh god_ — he couldn't think like that, because America had been gone for as long as Disneyland had been empty, and —

He puts his arms around the kids protectively.

They couldn't, _absolutely_ could not enter any buildings — because every time he'd peered into one, it was always the same thing. Rows and rows of people glued to their precious computer screens, who would never, _ever _leave. He wouldn't let that happen to them; the last generation had been ruined, it had been the second coming of the Lost Generation, but this wasn't going to happen again.

Not if he could help it.

—

Ontario paces back and forth, feeling frantic. "Where is he? Goddamn separatist bastard, he's the only one — the only one who's still in there! Does he want to leave that badly, so bad that he's willing to put up with that farce of a game?"

Manitoba snorts. "He's probably just sick of you — I mean, who wants to listen to you rant and cuss?"

"Shut up," Ontario snaps, clearly agitated, "I told him it was a dumb idea, but does he give a shit? It's like I tell him one thing and he goes and does the exact opposite! And now he's gone and who the fuck knows when he's coming back, _if_ he's coming — "

"Ontario," Canada says, looking up from his laptop. Then he hesitates, wondering if he should tell Ontario what he'd found, because this wasn't good news, and Ontario had looked so drained and worn and _lost_ that maybe this just wasn't appropriate. Except it'd never be appropriate, because Québec was — was —

"Ontario," he tries again, willing his voice to sound calmer than he feels, "Québec's not on the in-game roster anymore, he — we've lost track of him."

Then he bites his lip, looking at his province with concern. "Wait, don't — "

But Ontario leaps up, eyes wide and terrified. "No," he whispers, "no, no, no — he can't be dead — he _can't_. He promised me — he fucking promised! Canada, tell me he's not dead, he's just playing again, right? _Très drôle, Québec, très_ _drôle, _you stupid, stupid — "

And Canada watches, helpless, as Ontario runs for the door, slams it behind him, hands trembling.

They'd miscalculated, they'd really miscalculated this time. He still remembers when Québec pulled him aside that night —

"_It's true, isn't it? There's a drought, and we might die, for real this time."_

"_If we don't leave, then yes."_

"_Are we going to leave then? Our people, they won't — "_

"_They've already agreed, actually. That's not the problem. The problem is that we — we can't actually leave that easily. Do you remember when we first entered the game? The reason our people don't feel pain is that their bodies are shut off from sensations in the real world, and they're fed artificial signals from the game. If we were to leave, we need to turn off that — but the switches in the game haven't been working."_

"_What? They're not working?" A look of momentary panic flashes across Québec's face._

"_But there's another way. America once told me about a backup exit method — we would have to — to commit mass suicide."_

"_Is that our people or us?"_

"_Us."_

"_Great, so we get to suffer even more for the sake of our damn people — what have they ever done for us? Why the _hell_ are we always — "_

"_Québec, we won't suffer more — we can do the deaths painlessly and quickly. But there's a problem — the suicides — they need to be monitored, because at precisely the moment when our final major organs shut down, the switch needs to be flipped. If it's not done right — we will — "_

_Québec suddenly laughs, and his laughter is harsh and high. "So, you want me to stay behind, is that it? Stay behind and watch all of you kill yourselves and then make sure you make it to the other end."_

"_No," Canada protests, "that's not what I meant! This is purely your choice — you can choose to stay behind — or not."_

"_Oh," Québec says, "really, my choice? That's why you told me all of that, right? That's why you explained we were going to die of the drought, because if I don't — "_

"_It's your choice, Québec!"_

_His lips lift in a sneer. "Oh, I'll do it. I'll do whatever is needed to keep all the rest of you safe — it's not like it'd be worth it for me to make it in the real world. None of you would want me there, and it's better to stay at a place where at least I'm wanted, right?"_

"_Non, Québec, c'est pas ce que tu penses — "_

"_Don't speak French to me! I don't want to hear the damn words coming out of your throat! Especially not after you sided with _them_ — you were perfectly content to let them push me off to France and Germany and Mongolia, weren't you? Like I didn't matter at all — and I don't see why I would now, if you weren't asking for _this_."_

"_That's not true! I didn't want that — I never did...I just..."_

_He trails off, watching Québec turn to leave the room, slamming the door behind him._

Canada chokes down his bitter laugh at the memory, because they were always leaving, leaving, leaving, and all he ever saw were their backs, shoulders tense and angry from their last argument. And if Ontario ever found out about the truth, that he'd gone to Québec first, and that Québec had lied about his people wanting to stay — they — the two of them were going to kill him.

And as much as he tries to tell himself that it was Québec's choice, that he hadn't forced anyone into anything, he knows it's not entirely true. Because during the game — during their fifth or sixth round, Québec had convinced Ontario that Alberta was out to get them again, because — "They're perfectly content to let us easterners freeze in the dark — so fuck them and all that they stand for."

The angry rhetoric soon turned into loaded guns, and as the battle cries of civil war roared in the background, Canada realized that he'd forgotten how to forgive.

—

The two of them go to the hospital together — they're requesting information on all the affected citizens. They're not surprised when their request is refused — privacy laws, the secretary tells them, they have to respect that.

England just gives a short bark of laughter and tells France, "They keep the records in a cabinet in the storage room." Then he leans in and whispers, "_Fuck the government, right?_"

France nods, light grin playing at his lips.

And so they head there, breaking the lock on the door down through sheer force of will. The room is mostly bare, except for two lone cabinets sitting at opposite ends. And the files, when they pull them out, all say the same thing in different words:

"_Patient is having vivid memories of an earlier round, when they gutted someone in the stomach with a bayonet. Reasons for this sudden memory are unknown. Whether the scenario actually occurred is also unknown."_

"Angleterre," France says, with great urgency, "do you remember who Québec was fighting against the last few rounds?"

England snorts. "What makes you think I would know? I'm not — I'm not..." He's not Canada, he wants to tell France, but then neither of them really wants to think about what had happened to Matthew.

But France is already scrolling through the records — going through Québec's battles from the third to last round:

[March 1102]: The Kingdom of Belgium has declared war on the Khanate of Québec.  
>[December 1105]: The Khanate of Québec has burned down the city of Bruxelles.<br>[April 1106]: The Khanate of Québec has destroyed the city of Antwerpen.

France points at the screen, having found what he wanted. "There it is, Angleterre — three rounds ago, Québec destroyed Anvers. The records don't specify how, but that doesn't matter. Do you know where Anvers is on Belgique?"

"No," England snaps, "I don't feel everyone up the way _you_ do."

France laughs, but his laughter is cold. "It's her stomach," he says, "and if Québec destroyed Anvers, it'd be like him stabbing her in the midsection. Don't you remember what that man said he did — he gutted someone in the stomach with his bayonet. Doesn't that sound familiar now?"

England's eyes widen in realization.

—

"Rìběn has been quiet this round," China comments, looking thoughtful, because there haven't been any bitter clashes between their two peoples this round.

"Well," America says, studying the map on the screen and cradling the precious cup of water in his lap, "your people are very far from each other, so fighting doesn't break out nearly as often."

"I forget — where is he again?"

"Where England used to be. And Ireland basically switched places with South Korea, so — well, everyone knows that the British Isles have basically been a neverending warzone. Not that relations across the Korea Strait are any better — England and Ireland are still going at it. Although it seems like England's hiding somewhere right now, so all's quiet on the Western — or I guess Eastern front."

China sighs. War was hardly a surprise anymore — their people were perfectly content to let verbal wars turn into physical spats, because mindless violence was the perfect outlet for anger, not diplomacy, never diplomacy. And of course, the same questions were always on his mind — their lack of fighting was _unnatural_ — so just how long would this unexpected peace last? He hadn't wanted to think about reason and rationality and all those other things you were supposed to think about during war, but —

America's waving in his face again, yelling for China to come back down to earth.

"Are you alright? You keep zoning out — something heavy on your mind?" America gives him a curious look, and then says, "You know what, how about I give you some advice on this — "

"I don't need advice from _you_," China grumbles.

America snorts. "Why, because I'm too young to be giving someone like you advice? 'Cause you've lived for too long or some shit like that — but you know what, I don't _care_. I'm giving you advice anyway. You need to stop worrying. It's going to give you wrinkles." He suddenly grins and reaches for China's cheeks, attempting to tug at them, but China brushes away his fingers irritably.

"I do _not_ have wrinkles, měiguó!"

"Hey, don't worry, remember?" America says over China's protests, "There's always plastic surgery!"

China lets out a muffled laugh — and then makes up some lie about how he would never get plastic surgery because he's plenty handsome as it is, and would America really want him to change for the worse?

They go back to staring at the map again, trying to sort the military strategies running through their minds. China watches as America studies the screen — he loses his earlier relaxed stance, instead, he's staring at the screen with unmatched intensity. He's scared, that much China can tell, because he doesn't want to lose again, doesn't want to feel like he's useless and pathetic.

"You know, I've been thinking about your proposition this morning..." China says, looking at the tense figure of America before him.

"Forget it," America snaps, squeezing the styrofoam cup in his hands until it cracks, "I was just pissed. You were right. They'll never believe us, and we'll just look like goddamn fools for trying."

"Well, actually, I was going to say that if we're going to show them, we should start with the kids. They're most impressionable, right? The children were the ones who were convinced fastest that this is all fine — that the violence is meaningless and temporary. If we start with the young ones, we have a much higher chance of getting somewhere."

America gives him a curious look, and then he throws back his head and laughs.

"Oh, you _are_ evil, China."

—

**translations:**

"_Oh dieu, qu'est-ce que j'ai fait? Cette femme..."_ - "Oh god, what have I done? That woman..."  
><em>très drôle<em> - very funny  
>"<em>Non, Québec, c'est pas ce que tu penses..."<em> - No, Québec, it's not what you think...

_ròusōng _- 肉松 - I usually see it translated as "pork sung", it's this dried meat floss thing. it's good, just sayin' ;)  
>rìběn - 日本 - Japan<p>

Bruxelles (French) = Brussels (English)  
>Antwerp (English) = Antwerpen (Dutch) = Anvers (French)<p>

**notes (for linked version see lj):**

- Canada: "Let the eastern bastards freeze in the dark." - showed up in Alberta in response to the National Energy Policy of the '70s.  
>- U.S. parallel: "Let the Yankee bastards freeze in the dark." - bumper stickers in Texas (and Oklahoma and Louisana), protesting against the Northeast. I forget who copied whom...<br>- I swear that the general tone of most MMORPG's I've played have been that of China's imaginary scenario. 'hiya noob. look at how awesomely powerful i am. now, go die.'  
>- It is actually not possible for Canada et al to pull the cord on everyone else. More about that later.<p> 


End file.
